The Gift
by catherib
Summary: Fourteen years after meeting Clark, Lex explains how he came to be the man he is. Written in early second season, now AU.


The Gift  
  
There was a time, Clark, that I would have done anything for you. Lie, cheat, steal... all you had to do was ask. Maybe that's because I knew you'd never ask unless you really needed me. Maybe I just knew you'd never ask.  
  
I knew you didn't feel the same about me. No, I should be honest. You probably did feel the same, but you're... you're you and not me. See what ten grand of therapy gets you? Moronic statements like that. Waste of time. Never mind.  
  
The problem was, I kept trying to be the older brother. The one who gives you a hand when you need it. The one who tells you where the bumps in the road are and how to get around them. The one who picks you up and dusts you off when you hit them anyway. The brother I never had myself.  
  
I kept trying to be there for you, Clark, but you never needed me. Why did I think you would? Just because I needed you? Why did I try so hard to be your family, when you already had a better one than I could ever hope for?  
  
For whatever reason, I did keep trying to help you. At first, I cultivated our friendship to learn your secrets, just because they were there and no one else knew them. You grew up in Smallville, Clark. You know how hard it is to keep secrets in a small town. People got bored, and dredging up private tidbits was always the first topic of conversation. I took to it like a fish to water. I never thought there could be a common thread to our childhood environments, Clark, but secrets were prime entertainment in my house growing up, too.  
  
My interest didn't limit itself to just your secrets for long. You may not have needed me, Clark, and you may not have trusted me, but you actually liked me for myself. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Never mind, you couldn't know.  
  
You have no idea how lucky you are, Clark. If someone gives you a handshake and a smile, it's because they like you. They enjoy your company. They have no other reasons. When you have money, every person in the room wants to give you a handshake or a smile, and usually they do it while hating the very fact of your existence. That alone is enough to make any sane man cynical about people, especially ones claiming to be your friend.  
  
You had every reason to hate me, just like everyone else in that town. Even your dad despised me on sight, and you actually trust his opinion. But against him, all odds, and even common sense, you became my friend instead.  
  
A friend. I never had one before. I've never had one since, for that matter. I doubt I ever will again. I try not to make the same mistakes twice. But a friend you were, and I acted like a complete idiot. I was constantly insinuating myself into your life. I was together enough to keep my outer cool, but I dearly loved having a friend. To have someone to talk to, who I didn't have to guard my thoughts from or play an angle to. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about. It's not important.  
  
The point is, I could have stayed away. It wouldn't have been hard. Why do you think my father shipped that damn relic of a castle to Kansas? It wasn't to show off to the cows. It wasn't even to show off to me. I think he used this place to keep me wrapped in a cocoon of his influence, though he would use the word "love". He wanted to keep me from noticing that I wasn't down the hall from his office. He probably even thought he was doing me a favor. Keeping me in all the comforts of home, as if home were ever a comfort.  
  
Despite his best efforts, though, I came to two unshakable realizations. One of them I'm sure he feared I would come to eventually. The other would never have occurred to him in his wildest dreams.  
  
The first of my realizations was that in every meaningful way, I was a better businessman than my father. For instance, I always knew I was smarter. It made sense: at the time, he couldn't afford as good an education for himself as he could afford to spend on me twenty years later.  
  
Oh yes, my father was born poor. If you spent much time around the rich, Clark, you could see the difference between people who were born with their money and those who weren't. If you weren't born with it, no matter how much money you make, there's still some place in the back of your mind that is always convinced the money is a dream, that it could vanish in the morning. My father held onto his wallet like it was the only thing worth living for.  
  
More important than an education, though, my father lacked my one major advantage: he didn't have a father like Lionel Luthor to watch and learn from.  
  
I went to great trouble to watch my father run the business which consumed so much of both our lives. At first, he enjoyed showing off to me, but soon enough, it became one of the many reasons he sent me away: he didn't want me looking over his shoulder. He was afraid I was learning too much about his weaknesses. He was right.  
  
By putting me in the middle of nowhere, he could control what I heard as well as when and how I heard it. Well, he thought he could, anyway. Unfortunately for him, my father can't control all the reporters all of the time, and the internet is definitely our friend. Did I ever mention that I minored in computer science? Best money ever spent. Through some modest hacking, I could find out exactly what my father was doing at any given moment. It made for an interesting read. I learned constantly from his mistakes.  
  
In all honesty, most of what I would call his mistakes were really just differences in opinion, zigs where I would have zagged. He did consistently make one great glaring error, though: he never respected the people who worked for him. That was one of the few truly stupid things I've ever seen him do. It was the only mistake he ever made that was big enough to destroy him. Destroy him it did, though, when the time was right. I made sure of that.  
  
That was realization one. Realization two: My father was a son of a bitch.  
  
Normally, this would seem fairly obvious, even to blood relations. I always knew my father wanted me to succeed so he would look good. I knew he wanted me to inherit his business, because if he raised me to walk in his shoes correctly, it would be like he never left. I knew that if I didn't live up to his expectations of me, I would lose all his interest, money, and whatever else he defined as love.  
  
That was just the way he was. It was normal, expected. Despite what the song claims, love is not like oxygen, and can be done without. At least that's what I'd always thought. You changed that, Clark.  
  
You showed me what a family could be - what friends could be. What my life could have been, if I were someone other than me. If my father were someone other than Lionel Luthor. Until I met you, I only felt contempt for my father. I may not have grown up liking him, but I always found him extremely useful to learn from and, yes, get money from. That was always enough for me.  
  
When I was a child, I always got whatever I wanted. It wasn't until I met you that I found something I wanted with all my heart, and could never, ever have. Before I moved to Smallville, I only planned to get my father out of my way as soon as possible. I never truly hated him, not until I met you.  
  
Of all the things you ever did to me, Clark, that was the cruelest of all. Even if you had never lied to me, or betrayed me, or any of the other things that have happened between that time and this, you would deserve every moment of pain I give to you for that. I don't expect you to agree.  
  
For my father's sake, don't forget, there were still all the standard reasons to hate him as well. He spent his life becoming a very rich man at the expense of... well, pretty much everyone he ever met. Not to mention the countless others he never bothered to meet at all. He clawed his way up on the backs of his fellow men, and then kicked them away once he reached the top. He worked tirelessly, and with a vision solid as bedrock. The embodiment of the American dream, and what a lovely statement that is.  
  
So there I was, with grand realization number two in my pocket. Now there was just the matter of what to do about it. That was the easiest part, really. I already wanted him to retire as soon as possible, so I could start forging my own path. Did you really think I would follow blindly in my father's footsteps? Not for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Of all the things my father taught me, family loyalty was not one of them.  
  
Yes, I had always wanted him to retire sooner rather than later, but now things had changed. I saw the effect of LuthorCorp through the eyes of the people my father took advantage of. I saw how much harm his business policies caused every day. Besides, I couldn't stand the sight of the bastard anymore.  
  
It was no longer enough for him to simply retire at his earliest convenience. Lionel Luthor lived for his job - he wasn't going to let go of his business unless he were literally on his deathbed.  
  
My father did love an eye for efficiency. I had two birds and one stone. His deathbed was precisely what I arranged.  
  
Decision made, all that was left was the matter of planning. Lionel Luthor quite literally had armies of enemies, and unfortunately for me, this was definitely not one of the things he was stupid about. He had excellent security, and he paid them far too much money to be swayed easily. I could still see him alone, of course. I was still his only son. The point, however, was to actually get away with it - difficult if he turned up dead while I was the only other person in the room.  
  
So I went with a more subtle approach, and while his security was unbribeable, his cooks were not. Sometimes the old ways are the best, Clark. Believe it or not, for enough money you can even make it look like natural causes. Who would be suspicious or even surprised that Lionel Luthor died of a heart attack at the age of 45?  
  
Not his staff, that's for sure. Even if they suspected, they knew better than to question. Besides, I treated them better than my father ever did. As for everyone else, half either wouldn't care or would be glad my father died, and the other half would be convinced that I could get away with anything I wanted.  
  
You cared, Clark. For no good reason I can think of, you weren't glad my father was dead. And you wouldn't let it go - you wouldn't let *me* go. No one else, Clark. In time, even Chloe gave up the chase. But not you.  
  
I shouldn't have trusted you as much as I did, Clark. I should have seen how dangerous you could be to me from the beginning. I was so enamored with the idea of having a friend that I blinded myself to the threat you represented.  
  
I wanted so much not to have to worry about gauging potential threats anymore, Clark. My own great mistake. If my father had lived to see it, oh, how he would have laughed.  
  
I was sentenced to thirty years, ten without parole. I had a lot of time to think. I didn't do much *but* think. That, and ask myself why. How could you do this to me? You knew what my father was, better than most. Why would you do this?  
  
About four years in, I had a dream. Like all my dreams, I was in exactly the same place I was when I fell asleep, lying on the cot in my cell. You came in and stood in front of me, wearing the same checkered shirt and jeans you always did while you were in school. You wore the same expression you had when I heard my verdict, the one that actually seemed to say this moment hurt you more than it hurt me.  
  
You said, "Not even your dad, Lex. Not even him." When I woke up, I understood what you meant. It was my dream, of course I understood. Not even my father would have resorted to murder. Not even he could stoop so low.  
  
Realization number three: I wasn't just better at business than my father, I was better at everything. I was more intelligent, more savvy, better at predicting market swings. That I already knew.  
  
What I realized that night was that I was also more ruthless and more heartless than he ever was. He feared my taking over his business, he feared me overtaking him in greatness, but he never feared for his life.  
  
Why would he?  
  
I was his son.  
  
Of all the things my father did in his life, I had done worse. Of all the things he was capable of, he could not have done what I did. I understood, Clark, why you turned me in. All the things I hated about my father... and I had become worse.  
  
I hadn't cried a day since the meteors fell, Clark. I wasn't sure I could anymore. I cried in my cell that night, for a long time.  
  
But my eyes were dry in the morning.  
  
It was about a year before I got out that I read my first article about Superman. Written by Lois Lane, who seemed positively dazzled for a reporter of her professional weight. I noticed her collaborating with you in other pieces further in. It's amazing how blind people can be to what's standing in front of them. It almost makes you feel sorry for her. I know how she feels.  
  
Oh, and Clark. The glasses? Please. You never needed glasses a day in your life. It's a good thing I know the editor of the Smallville paper, or your cover would have been well and truly blown with that one photograph.  
  
Yes, it always surprises me how easy it is to dupe people. I mean, look at me. Faced with the evidence for years, hard facts that could only point to one thing, and I let you pull the wool over my eyes. I was such a fool.  
  
Believe it or not, even after everything, it still hurt that you lied to me. Not just omitting the truth, you out-and-out lied to my face about what happened in that river. You knew how much it meant to me to understand what really happened, and still you looked me in the eye and lied like a dog. I wouldn't have suspected you were that good a liar, Clark. I wouldn't have thought you'd have the practice.  
  
Don't worry, Clark, I don't blame you. The way things turned out, you were right not to trust me. You were an idiot to think I wouldn't know the truth the moment you went public, but maybe you thought I would be fooled the same as everyone else. You ought to have known me better than that, but I suppose it has been ten years.  
  
I don't even blame you for turning me in, once you figured out what really happened. After all, you were right. I had gone further than my father ever would have, and you wanted to pull me back from the edge. You wanted to keep me from careening off another bridge at sixty miles an hour. You were just being yourself.  
  
No, I don't blame you for any of those things. I blame you for something else. I blame you for diving into that river sixteen years ago. I blame you for giving a damn whether I was alive or dead. God was trying to send you a message that day, Clark, but you didn't listen. Not everyone deserves to be saved.  
  
Yet you keep going out into the world every morning with the firm belief that you can save it from itself. You have such hope, Clark. You have faith in people, the same faith you used to have in me. That faith is misplaced.  
  
If you keep using your gifts to help people, they will hate you for it, Clark. Believe me, I know. Now you're the rich kid, and they are the ones with nothing. They may love you now, but they will eventually turn on you. They will hate you and fear you, and inevitably, they will destroy you.  
  
Unless I give them something else to fear.  
  
Once again, efficiency rules. I can keep the masses from crucifying you. I can teach you the futility of helping people who don't want to be helped. I can teach you what a mistake it can be, to save someone who isn't worth saving. All it takes is the price of one friendship.  
  
It wasn't hard to find someone appropriate. After all, I'd done it before. Chloe knew your secret as well, Clark. It was all in her computer. She learned more of your secrets than even I had. I never would have guessed on my own that the meteor rocks could be your weakness. But then, no one else could ever see through you the way Chloe did. Certainly not me.  
  
She could have exposed you. At least, that's what the police would say, if the evidence on her computer were examined. I didn't even need to plant it - her existing files so conveniently suggested all the wrong conclusions. I can learn from my own mistakes, Clark. Chloe's murder was traceable only to you.  
  
Hometown boy murders his girlfriend. Superman murders the one person who knew his secret. If the tabloids ever found out, I'm sure they'd take the latter angle. You would know the truth, I made sure of that. I know, of course. But no one else could possibly guess.  
  
You see, I don't want your disappointment, your understanding, or your pity. The only thing I want from you anymore is hate. That will be my last gift to you, Clark. I will show you that there is no real good or evil in this world, only limits. Everyone has them, even you. I think I may have finally found yours.  
  
I can hear you outside the door. I can hear the metal grinding. I barricaded myself in, you see. I had to make it look like I actually thought I was safe. You might see my plan, otherwise. Without proper distraction, you could always see through me far too well.  
  
My gift, Clark. I give you the opportunity to make up for the mistake you made on the bank of a river so long ago. Time to finish what God started, Clark. Because if you fail me again, I'll make sure that this is not just the end of a friendship. Oh, no.  
  
This will be just the beginning. 


End file.
